


the sweetest

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: tumblr mugged me in a back alley [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mandatory Fun Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 04:02:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18933007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Turns out Clint's favorite afternoon snack actually comes from Hydra. It's a typical day for the Avengers, really.(Mandatory Funday PopCycle prompt)





	the sweetest

**Author's Note:**

> So. I looked at the picture and said, Sev, what's the most McFuckin ridiculous thing you could do? And my brain said, _the popsicles are Hydra._
> 
> So we did that. Then the Bad Decisions Discord egged me on into porn, and well, you get what you get, guys.

“I don’t believe I’m seeing this with my own two eyes,” Tony says, over the comms. 

“This is the dumbest fuckin’ plan I’ve seen yet,” replies Bucky, his voice tinny from the other roof as he takes another shot, which echoes oddly both in Clint’s ears and in the comms.

“Laugh it up,” Clint says, “this is the most depressing day of my life.” He shoots down another fucking popsicle, watching as it careens down to splat on the sidewalk below. 

“Focus, boys.” Nat’s voice is as calm as ever, even though Clint can’t even see through the fireball she just kicked into life. “Tony’ll take you kids out for ice cream later.”

“He’d fuckin’ better,” Clint mumbles, and there’s a snort over the line that’s too familiar to be anyone but Bucky.

“Keep the chatter off the line,” Steve barks, “and at least take this sort of seriously.”

“Cap,” Tony says, slow and patient, even as Clint watches him burn a line of repulsor fire through the oncoming hordes. “The Pop-Cycle man is Hydra. There are Hydra popsicles chasing the Winter Soldier. If you think I’m not going to make jokes about this for the next thirty years, you are incredibly wrong.”

“They aren’t Hydra popsicles,” Bucky adds cheerfully. “They’re tracking beacons _disguised_ as popsicles.”

“And I had one in my mouth,” Clint mourns. He lines up a shot that’ll take out four of them in a row, and when it executes beautifully, hopes that someone saw it.

“Not the worst thing you’ve had in there, I’ll bet,” Tony drawls, right as Steve yells again, _“Off the line!”_

“Aw,” Sam chimes in, “is Capsicle grumpy that he didn’t get a frozen treat?”

“I hate all of you,” Steve says.

“High five, Falcon,” Tony adds, and then shoots away down another street.

Clint sees another one of the carts approaching. “Iron Man, corner of 32nd and Forbes, FYI.” He watches, the childish part of him saddened as the man on the bicycle opens up the freezer compartment strapped to the frame and pulls out a semi-automatic. Are _all_ of the Pop-Cycle guys Hydra? He’s been fucking paying Hydra $3.50 a pop for _weeks._

There’s a crackle over the line and then Pietro’s voice comes in, staticky: “What in the hell is going on, we are starting to see these strange machines come hover around the Tower, they look sticky and I am not very much a fan.”

Clint takes the opportunity to snap back, “What, kid, you didn’t see them coming?”

“Old man, I will guess you have eaten two dozen of whatever these things are.”

Clint doesn’t answer, because Pietro’s totally wrong. It’s more like five dozen. What? There was this cart that parked _right_ outside his Bed-Stuy building at noon.

“Clint,” Steve says, suddenly looking concerned, “how many did you eat?”

“Not enough to make you barf, I hope.” Sam flies past him, cutting close enough that Clint can feel the air on his face.

“None!” Clint yells hastily, and luckily Wanda comes on the line.

“I have taken care of the floating sticks,” she says, a little out of breath. “They are very fast.”

“I’ll show you very fast,” Pietro mutters into the comm. 

“The raspberry-strawberry was Vis’ favorite,” Wanda adds, helpfully. “Bruce liked mango-banana.”

“Copy,” Steve says, because while Steve Rogers is going to find this hilarious later, Captain America doesn’t have a sense of humor while the shield is out. “Hold the Tower, take out the ones you can, save anything that looks interesting for Tony.”

“Aw, sweetheart,” Tony drawls over the line.

“No, now I’m gonna barf,” Sam says.

“Are any of you actually taking out the _carts,_ or is that just me?” Natasha asks, a little snippy. “I realize floating popsicles are gonna be the next thing to feature in Stark’s shooting ranges, but c’mon, guys.”

 _“The popsicles have guns,”_ Tony says gleefully, as if he’s waited his entire life to string together those four words. “We’re just keeping them off your back.”

“Aw, shucks,” Tasha deadpans. “For lil old me?”

There’s a loud explosion down to Clint’s left, which makes Nat’s point very well.

Steve must be as tired of this as Nat is, because he calls out, “Alright. Black Widow and I will focus on the carts. Iron Man and Falcon, circle around, start turning any ice cream man you see back to us.”

“It isn’t ice cream,” Bucky adds, still so helpful. “It’s popsicles.”

“Shut up,” Steve pleads.

“Wouldn’t want you to book the wrong guy,” Clint says with a snicker, and hits an empty Pop-Cycle cart with an exploding arrow. 

“Do they think I’m not worth ice cream?” Bucky muses, and there are a number of snorting laughs on the line. “I’m the fucking Winter Soldier. I should be worth ice cream.”

“Hawkeye, you don’t have as many arrows as Buck has bullets, so why don’t you start aiming for any carts that Widow and I aren’t covering.” Steve continues, as if none of this is happening.

“Use my code name, Cap.”

“I am not,” Steve grits out, “calling you _Winter—”_

“While we’re fighting a bunch of popsicles,” Tasha adds cheerfully, and there’s actual applause - probably Tony - because once Nat joins in on the comm fun, Steve eventually gives up.

“ _White Wolf,”_ Steve enunciates, very clearly, over the comm line, and that snort is definitely Buck’s cause Clint knows he ain’t used to that name yet. “Shoot the fucking popsicles, would you?”

“Gladly,” Bucky yells, and Clint hears a whole lot of machine gun fire from the roof across the way.

“Watch your language, Cap,” Tony says, “or I’ll wash your mouth out with a Hydra popsicle.”

Clint’s pretty sure he can see Cap hang his head and give up from here.

———

The aftermath is almost as chaotic as the battle. They’ve killed or maimed all of the Hydra goons who have - apparently - and Clint’s gonna have to rewatch their footage, cause Cap and Tony are standing in front of the handful of reporters who have gathered at the edges of the scene, and Cap’s trying to handwave them off as Tony talks into his sunglasses at increasing levels of volume.

 _Apparently,_ Hydra infiltrated a company selling fucking popsicles off of bicycles to try to find their Winter Soldier. There were trackers in the sticks, which is kind of genius, cause in NYC people will buy all kinds of snacks from local vendors and then wander all kinds of places with them. 

Then again, it’s also kind of dumb, because Hydra hasn’t yet figured out that their precious Winter Soldier is holed up in Tony Stark’s tower even though he comes out to fight with them all the time. 

“Excuse me, FRIDAY,” Tony yells from behind Clint, as the reporters look on. It isn’t every day they can catch Tony Stark having an argument with his sunglasses. “The company has to have a headquarters, they’re selling _food_ on the _street,_ they need to have a license, and inspections, and _Barton eats this kind of stuff all the time_ , oh my god, do not tell me that.”

Clint gives him the finger and heads off to the nearby van, where the _completely secret_ Winter Soldier is stripping his weapons off along with the Black Widow.

“Hey, baby.” Clint drops a kiss on Bucky’s head as he climbs in. “Still a mysterious Hydra secret, huh?”

“Apparently.” Bucky stands up, claims an actual kiss, and Clint will _never_ get over how much he likes how stupid and casual and banal it is for Bucky to just kiss him, perfunctory, after a battle. He will never get over it.

Apparently, neither will Nat. “You’re gross,” she offers conversationally. 

Clint responds by going over to her bench and dropping a bunch of feathery kisses into her hair until she’s laughing again. 

“I can’t decide whether I’m impressed at the subtlety or still fuckin’ laughing at how ridiculous this is,” Bucky says. 

Outside, Tony is still yelling. “They don’t have a permit for _what?_ Friday, patch in Legal, now.”

“Both,” Tasha says, stripping off her gloves. “It’s actually not a bad idea, a set of tracking beacons distributed all around the city, deployed at a frequency to detect your arm. It could have been successful.”

“Sure.” Bucky shrugs. “If Stark hadn’t given me a home and a new arm, that is.”

The three of them glance out of the van to watch Stark do some kind of angry stamping dance in a circle, all the while yelling at his sunglasses with one hand clenching and unclenching over and over like it still has a repulsor on it.

“That is a _disgrace_ to the _children_ in Manhattan!” Tony yells. At least three of the reporters have given up asking Steve questions, and are now recording Tony on their mobile phones.

“And that’s why it’s stupid,” Nat finishes, and Bucky fistbumps her.

“I really liked those,” Clint says wistfully, staring at what might be the last remaining Pop-Cycle cart in New York. It doesn’t look damaged. Too damaged. “They had this peach-mint thing that was just perfect for hot days.”

“Clint,” Bucky starts, reluctant.

“Clint,” Natasha says, and she just sounds weary as always. “How many trackers did you eat?”

Clint squirms for a moment before admitting, “I don’t know, yeah, I chew on the sticks but only until I find a trash can, you know?”

Bucky follows Clint’s line of sight to the abandoned bicycle. 

“What do you think happens if I eat one?”

“James, no,” Natasha sighs.

“James, yes,” Bucky crows, and he and Clint rush the cart together in a flurry of racing limbs.

“I don’t _care_ about the microlevels of arsenic,” Tony’s still shrieking in the background. “I want to find their _manufacturing site,_ oh my god, why are you all so bad at this?”

———

It turns out, Tony buys Indian for dinner and follows it up with three dozen cartons of ice cream, because he thinks he’s funny.

“I’m just glad you didn’t need a Code Green,” Bruce says, happily eating his way through a carton of Neapolitan. “It’s nice to be able to sit here and watch, sometimes.”

“It is not nice,” Pietro shoots back. “I would have been very useful on the ground.”

“You are never useful,” Wanda retorts. She has a carton of cookies and cream in her lap, and she seems to be sharing with Pietro, but her grip looks a little possessive. “And we are technically in hiding, remember?”

“Ah, that’s right.” Pietro throws a shit-eating grin at Tony. “Because we hate Mr. Stark.”

“I’m always happy to be underestimated,” Tony says. He’s kicked back against the armrest of one of the couches, his feet in Steve’s lap. “It makes a nice contrast from all the other times I’m underestimated.”

“Sure, pal, you’re just a regular Joe Schmoe,” Bucky says, and Clint kicks him, cause he can.

“I, for one,” Steve begins, but then Tony shovels a giant spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into his mouth and Steve shuts up again.

“Can you get brain freeze?” Sam wonders. “Like, after being frozen for so long?”

“He has permanent brain freeze,” Bucky replies cheerfully. “Never went away.”

“I thought brain freeze jokes were still gauche,” Tony retorts, and Steve’s mouth twists up in a dumb smile. “None of you tell me when I’m allowed to pick on the Brain Freeze Soldier.”

“As if that ever stops you,” Bucky says mildly.

Tony grins, and when Steve tries to say something, shoves another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “Both of you deserve a brain freeze for fun.”

“Been there, tried that,” Bucky shoots back, and Clint fistbumps him because what else is he gonna do? Bucky joking about trauma is _hilarious._

“We’re in for weeks of freezer jokes,” Nat says mournfully, “aren’t we.”

“It’s Hydra’s fault.” Clint bravely does not mention how long he’s been supporting the Hydra Popsicle Efforts. “Who the fuck turns popsicles into tiny little weapons?”

“Who the fuck eats popsicle weapons?” Bucky turns to look at Clint, and the slow grin on Bucky’s face makes Clint’s brain think horrible, wonderful things about Bucky’s mouth.

“I didn’t know they were fucking _frozen juice guns,_ ” Clint says, faking outrage. “They were tasty.”

“Hydra probably spent more time on the recipe than they did on the actual plan,” Nat muses. “This is one of the worst ones we’ve seen.”

“It’s almost as bad as Hammer,” Tony says gleefully. “You guys remember that dumbass thing with the sewers and the--?”

The group collectively groans, and shudders, and approximately six spoons end up thrown at Tony Stark’s face.

———

They’re back in their room, getting ready for bed, and Clint won’t ever stop being secretly pleased at Bucky, relaxed and comfortable in Clint’s space - becoming their space - as if there’s nothing to it. They’ve been like this for months, now, but it still occasionally hits Clint between the eyes at how fucking lucky he is that this _works._

“Got a surprise for you,” Bucky says with a grin as he tugs off his shirt, so Clint’s eyes automatically go to his abs because he likes these kinds of surprises very much, thanks.

“No,” Bucky adds, and Clint starts and brings his eyes back to Bucky’s face. “It isn’t a sex surprise.”

“It could be a sex surprise?” Clint can’t really keep the suggestive tone out of his voice, which is okay, because he always loves the way Bucky’s eyes start to go dark with want.

Bucky’s shirtless and in a pair of Captain America pajama pants, all soft and riding dangerously low on his hips, and he looks delicious, Clint thinks, as that grin goes slightly feral.

“It’s somethin’ for your mouth,” Bucky drawls, and Clint nearly whines.

“There had better be a sex surprise at some point,” he says, tugging off his own tank so that he’s only wearing his normal purple-and-black boxers, and he watches Bucky swallow.

“We’ll see,” Bucky says, grinning, and he grabs Clint’s arm.

Clint obediently follows him into the kitchen. Bucky opens the freezer and makes a grandiose gesture at it. It’s stuffed _full_ of the PopCycle popsicles, all around the frozen pizzas and breakfast burritos, and Clint just stares for a second because there’s like every flavor he loves in there, just for him.

“I confiscated ‘em at the crime scene,” Bucky says proudly. “These are apparently all the defective ones, that didn’t fucking fly around and shoot people for whatever reason. Told ‘em we wanted the technology, then nicked ‘em all and stuffed ‘em in here.”

“Oh my god,” Clint says, already reaching out for a peach-mint, tearing the packaging off. “You’re so romantic, here, eat this, it’s amazing.”

He reaches out with the popsicle and Bucky does some really obscene things with his mouth as Clint shoves it in, slowly, because he does still want the sex surprise after all.

“You know,” Bucky says, after taking a long taste and then pulling the popsicle out with the kind of expression that usually gives Clint instant boners, “that’s really fuckin’ good. At least Hydra has enough class to make a good goddamn popsicle.”

“You were a good goddamn popsicle,” Clint retorts, as he opens up a raspberry-basil one and swirls his tongue around it dramatically. He’s rewarded by the blush that rushes across Bucky’s cheekbones, although Bucky simply sucks his popsicle down, hollowing his cheeks back at Clint.

Clint does the same, then deepthroats the popsicle just because he can, cause he learnt sword-swallowing tricks in the circus and he’s never been shy about them.

Bucky makes a noise, and then they’re both cracking up, losing their composure, leaning on each other and laughing so hard Clint thinks his stomach’s going to cramp and he’s just so fucking _happy_ at the moment he might explode.

“Only you and I,” Bucky wheezes through his laughter, “would stand around in our own kitchen giving blowjobs to popsicles,” and then he’s off again.

“Hydra popsicles,” Clint manages to get out, and Bucky’s laughing so hard, and the look on his face is so fucking fond that Clint wants to screenshot it and tattoo it into his heart.

“Suck a dick, Hydra,” Bucky says, and that’s it, Clint’s gut hurts from laughing; they’re folded over and into each other, somehow, barely able to stand up.

Eventually they catch their breath, but Bucky’s popsicle has dripped all over his fingers, and Clint has to fight Bucky’s mouth off so that he can clean up Bucky’s fingers and that sets them off again. “Stop,” Bucky says eventually, chuckling, swatting at Clint with the metal hand. “I wanna get to the stick and see the tracker.”

“Hmm.” Clint hums around his popsicle, grinning with his mouth full. “Why, you wanna track yourself?”

“Nah.” Bucky grins lazily back at Clint. “Wanna see if I can reprogram it.”

“Ooh,” Clint says, instantly intrigued. “Think we can program them to chase Stark around the tower?”

“Read my mind,” Bucky replies, biting off a piece of his popsicle. “You’re so romantic.”

“Well,” Clint says, stepping close, “we can try that later. I was promised a sex surprise, you know.”

He leans in and Bucky smiles as Clint kisses him; it’s the best feeling, Bucky smiling against his lips, second only maybe to the feeling when Bucky’s mouth opens against his, fitting easily. Bucky’s tongue is cold and he tastes like peach-mint and himself, and Clint presses in, hoping Bucky can feel how much Clint loves him.

He pulls away gently, one last lick at Bucky’s lips, and Bucky’s eyes have gone dark with arousal and fondness in a way that makes Clint momentarily breathless.

“Finish your popsicle, sweetheart,” Bucky drawls. “I got plans for that mouth.”

———

Bucky’s kissing him slow and sweet and nearly filthy, pressing Clint down into the mattress with most of his bodyweight, and Clint never expected to like that but he does: Bucky’s weight on him makes him feel safe, almost hidden, helps him stay present. It’s also Bucky’s skin on his, touching from chest all the way down to their toes, legs interlocked as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Everywhere their skin is touching feels like an electric spark lighting Clint’s nerves.

Clint has a hand in Bucky’s hair, tugging just enough to make Bucky whine into it; Bucky’s mouth turns demanding, needy, wrecking Clint’s lips before moving to the sensitive skin of his neck. Clint tips his head back, closes his eyes, because Bucky’s tongue is feather-light against his jawline and Clint might die from the sensation. He’s already hard and pushing against Bucky’s hips and it feels like his entire body is tingling, pins-and-needles, as Bucky starts to take him apart with delicacy.

Clint winds a hand in-between them and manages to slip it down far enough to palm at Bucky’s cock, hard and thick through his pajamas, and Bucky lets the moan slip out against Clint’s throat. Clint shivers against it and Bucky nips at his throat, laving his tongue over the spot just after; Clint can barely breathe, really.

They separate long enough to take their clothes off and then Bucky’s pressing Clint back into the mattress, now kissing across his collarbone as Clint struggles to open the lube. He’s going to die here, happy, under Bucky, and it’s totally worth it.

Bucky slides down, and Clint lets his legs fall open; Bucky teases his hole with one slick fingertip, oh _fuck,_ he’s lubed up the _metal hand_ , and Clint’s shivering again as Bucky slowly slides the digit in. Bucky’s licking at his cock while he waits for Clint to settle, and Clint already knows he needs more; it isn’t enough pressure, it isn’t full enough, _fuck_ he’s hard and Bucky’s mouth is warm and wet and he’s moving his hips to get more and it _isn’t enough_.

“Hurry up,” he manages to get out, except that it’s nearly a whine, and Bucky snickers against his thigh.

Then there are two fingers pressing up, slowly filling him in, and Clint’s world goes white for a second when Bucky sucks the head of Clint’s dick into his mouth; the sensation’s so much, too much, his muscles already clenching around Bucky’s metal fingers and Clint feels like his spine is on fire.

Bucky starts moving his hand, slowly pumping in and out, and the first time he curls his fingers up into Clint’s prostate he and Clint make the same shuddering gasp at the same time. Bucky always says he likes watching, and Clint doesn’t really know what he sees, cause Clint’s barely aware of what’s going on: his hips are rutting down onto Bucky’s hand, wanting that fullness, and Bucky’s mouth is working its way down his dick and Clint’s trying so hard to not just come at the sensations alone, pulled between two points of heat until it’s overwhelming. 

“I’m good,” he says to Bucky, “I’m okay, just please, please get in me.” The last is this is a whisper, coming out of his mouth, some kind of whining moan that’s making Bucky smile as he slicks up his own cock. God, it’s thick, the tip so red Clint really, really wants to mouth at it, except that he wants it inside him like yesterday.

Bucky looks up at Clint and meets his eyes as he lines them up. He doesn’t even look down, even as he slowly pushes into Clint - and oh, _god,_ the stretch of that burns so hot, stinging as the rim of the head slides in, and the pressure - fuck, Clint’s panting, it’s so good, _too_ good, and Bucky groans out this long low sound as he slides home, fully sheathed.

They’re still for just a minute, Bucky looking down at Clint, his face flushed and eyes wide as if he never expected to feel this good in his life. Clint has to reach up, tug him down for a long, slow kiss, nipping at Bucky’s lower lip. He loses himself in Bucky’s mouth, but falls back to himself once Bucky starts to move.

The slide of Bucky’s cock, dragging out, then solidly pressing back in: it’s all Clint’s aware of at this moment, all he can feel. Clint tips his hips so he can wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist - flexibility coming in handy - and Bucky slams into that white-hot spot and Clint can’t help the moan as his whole body jerks with pleasure, warm and overwhelming. 

From there it’s all just a haze as Bucky dips to devour his mouth. His pace is deliberate, not fast but _hard,_ like he’s concentrating on wringing out as much satisfaction as he can each time; the intensity’s spiking behind Clint’s closed eyelids as he gasps, each time. Bucky’s panting, head hung low, tucked into Clint’s shoulder, hot breath against Clint’s neck. Bucky keeps his movements controlled, as if he’s relishing each single one of them, and Clint’s entire body is so in tune - so hot, so stimulated - that he thinks he might lose it before he’s able to come.

“Fuck, doll, you feel good,” Bucky murmurs into his neck around shuddering breaths.

Clint chokes at it, at the end of a particularly deep thrust, and then he’s just breathing Bucky’s name, saying over and over, “God, _fuck,_ don’t stop.”

He feels Bucky’s pace falter, speeding up, and the noise Bucky makes when he’s getting close, deep down in his throat; it’s a noise Clint can feel as well as hear, and Bucky’s slamming into him now and Clint chokes out a breathy sob as he reaches his hand down to his own dick - slick with sweat and precome - and he just wants release, that’s all, he just wants - everything’s white-hot and wet and he’s close, he’s so fucking close it nearly _hurts._

He’s pumping his own hand between the hard planes of Bucky’s abs and his own, and Bucky finally slams once, twice, and Clint comes at the sound of Bucky’s long, relieved, absolutely exultant moan and the hot wet feeling of Bucky’s cock pulsing inside him. Hazy pleasure descends, and for a long minute Clint can’t move, can’t breathe, his body shuddering for him through the white-out of his orgasm.

He comes out of it to feel Bucky kissing at his neck, his jawline, his cheekbone; Bucky’s often like this, after he comes, peppering Clint with lips and tongue and teethmarks, like he can’t help himself. Clint breathes in, ragged and limp with satisfaction, and lets his head flop to the side as Bucky carefully licks up the outside of his ear.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes against his skin. “Oh, sweetheart.” He continues, soft little sensations across Clint’s skin until he reaches Clint’s mouth and works him into a deep, slow kiss full of the intensity of the aftermath. “Oh, Clint,” Bucky murmurs against his lips. “So good.”

Bucky always unwinds like this and Clint has no idea how because he isn’t even back to the point he can form actual words. “Gah,” he replies, and lets his head flop to the other side.

“Mmmm.” Bucky hums against his skin. “I love you like this, all fucked-out and pliant.”

Clint tries to reply with something snappy but what comes out of his mouth is more garbled garbage that ends in some kind of whine. 

“C’mere, doll.” Bucky slowly pulls out of Clint - eliciting another long whine - and then settles them both on their sides, facing each other, metal arm wrapped around Clint’s waist and their legs all tangles together. Clint works on breathing and moving his limbs so that he can get his arm around Bucky.

He exhales into a long shudder, and Bucky chuckles fondly at him. “You didn’t fuck _all_ my brains out,” Clint manages to say, finally.

“Nah,” Bucky says with a grin. “I like ‘em where they are.”

“You’re sweet tonight,” Clint points out, not that he doesn’t like it - sweet Bucky is absolutely one of his favorite Buckys - but because he wants to do the same, as soon as he gets all his nerves back from wherever they’re all currently singing.

Bucky shrugs. “It’s stupid,” he says, “because it’s fuckin’ popsicles, but.” He sighs. “Every time Hydra shows up it’s just a little reminder.”

That’s enough to get Clint’s arms working. He pulls Bucky closer and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Popsicles, Buck. PopCycles. They must be desperate, and it ain’t gonna work.”

“Popsicles _you_ paid for,” Bucky says, teasing and fond. “Just lemme be sweet on you awhile, dumbass.”

“Anything for you, _doll_ ,” Clint says, “and I really didn’t eat that many, okay?”

Bucky shifts, and then he’s pulling Clint in close; Clint tucks his face in against Bucky’s warm chest and lets Bucky rest his chin on top of Clint’s hair. It’s warm and safe, and Clint’s already fading to sleep, spent and lax with the echoes of pleasure weighing him down.

“Sweet dreams,” Bucky whispers, and Clint starts snickering into his skin.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs as he drifts off, “really, Buck?”


End file.
